Put Down That Apron!

So I may have up and become a housewife. You probably all saw this coming long before I did. Still, to me it’s a bit of a shocker. I haven’t settled yet on how I feel about this, or how long I plan on letting this go on. When did this happen exactly?

Looking back, it all makes sense, I suppose. But I feel like I turned my back for a moment, distracted by something shiny, probably, and wham! next thing you know, I’m putting on an apron of all things (mom, this is your fault), and planning my day around cleaning, cooking, and grocery shopping. And I don’t think that bumping the stereo neutralized the apron wearing.

To get to the bottom of this, I suppose we’d have to go back to getting married. But that doesn’t nearly explain it all. After all, Hernan got married too, and he’s not a housewife. He’s kind of the anti-housewife. Moving back in with his mother has nearly eliminated his ability to (1) do laundry, (2) cook, and (3) touch anything that resembles a cleaning product. Since my mother-in-law pretty much attacked him when he tried to cook something once, I don’t blame him completely. Sure, she’s all smiles at first, but she can get pretty fierce, let me tell you.

It has been pointed out to me, on more than one occasion, that I am … how shall I put this … domestically inclined? But I always sought to counter this modern woman’s dilemma by drinking beer and lifting things that were probably too heavy for me.

So how did it come to pass that he plays with power tools all day and I do things like cook chili and wash all the dust off the dishes?

I’ve identified a number of factors, but principle among them, I’ve determined, is this pregnancy business. That, and being unemployed. But, let’s focus on the baby, because, really? why not blame things on the defenseless?

Baby = no more beer and no more heavy lifting.

What, then, is a woman to do??

You understand, as I lose the abilities I once had to bend over, climb stairs without becoming winded, and see my own feet, I’ve also had to limit my participation in our construction projects. I’ve put aside hauling buckets of concrete, turned away from climbing ladders, and given up doing anything that involves being on the roof. I didn’t, for example, take any part in navigating the fridge up to our kitchen using ropes.

So that has left me where? Sanding boards, painting, and … being a housewife.

I can’t lie and say I’m not fantastically pleased to finally have a functional (though still unfinished) kitchen, in which I can cook the foods that I want to eat. Yet, I’m a bit alarmed by how easily I’m fulfilling my traditional wifey role. Next thing you know, I’ll be dressed in all pink and sewing. (I really hate sewing, and if you ever catch me at it, please stage an immediate intervention. It will never result in any good.)

I should be clear that this should in no way be interpreted as a dis on housewives around the world, not even the ones clad all in pink. It’s more like… an identity crisis, maybe. I liked being a bread-winner, as well as a bread-maker. (I also like being a bread-eater, fyi.)

Eventually, I’d like to go back to work, find a job that doesn’t involve hordes of screaming three-year-olds. Until then, I guess I’ll disguise the dish soap as a skilsaw and the clothesline as a wrench set and see where that gets me.